


Shades of Ray

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you know when to stop looking? Ray figures out the who, what, when, and where of his life, post-CotW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Ray

**A** PRIL 9, 1998

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray?" 

"Yeah? What?" 

"Are you--that is, would you like me to turn on the lantern?" 

"What?" 

"It's just--you seem to be having some difficulty sleeping." 

Jeez. It figures. I bet all that blinking the sleep outta my eyes is causing eyelash draft in the Prince's direction. Must suck to be so frigging sensitive. 

"Ray?" 

"I'm good. Back's a little sore." 

"Oh. Well. I believe there's some ibuprofen in my pack." 

"What--you don't got some of those homemade mucous members?" 

Yeah, I can't see my own hand, but I can see Fraser's smiling. Well, I can hear it in his voice. He's so fucking sincere, it actually hurts. 

"Well, Ray, since you asked--" 

"No, no, and no. Don't even think about it. Besides, you'll kill yourself trying to find it." 

"Actually, Ray, my night vision is above-average. Would you like me to find it for you and return with some ibuprofen?" 

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Just don't trip over me, got it?" 

"Of course, Ray. It wouldn't do for the both of us to be injured." 

I sit up--like I'm gonna see any better sitting up. Weird. I can hear him moving around, but quiet, 'cause he manages not to bump into anything. He doesn't even make the sleeping bag rustle. I don't want to know how he does that, but it's creepy as hell. And then he's got his hand out, warm on my wrist, guiding it so I can grab onto the cold tin cup of water. I take it, feel the warm edge of his fingers against mine, and then he's got my other arm by the wrist, and he's turning my hand palm up and...shaking it? No. Holding it. Letting go. 

I'd look down, but I already know I can't see my own hand. I look down anyway. My hand feels empty. It is empty. I'm sitting here holding onto a cup of water and staring at my own hand, and I can't see for shit, but I can tell my hand's shaking around that sweaty tin cup. 

"Frase?" 

"Open up--" 

"I--" His fingers brush against my mouth. 

"There you go. I'll take that." 

I swallow dry (no way in hell I'm gonna try to drink something I can't even see.) Give him back the cup. Lie back down. 

I feel like I'm six years old. It's nighttime, dark dark dark--so dark I got my glasses on and I _still_ can't see a damned thing. You ever think maybe you can't see because you aren't here? Like one of those twilight zones where it turns out that the guy's gone blind or the world's ended or something and he's the only person who doesn't know it? 

Jeez. I'm creeping myself out here. 

Outside, out here, you'd think it'd be quiet, but it's noisy at night. Not city noisy, but definitely not peaceful, either. The snow's loud when it moves at night, creeping around, covering up tracks, wolf shit, pine needles, all of it. Erased. That's what Chicago needs--just one good snowstorm. Maybe we could just... start over or something. Clean slate. 

When I was six my dad said if I pretended to be asleep, then it was almost as good as sleeping. It wasn't even Christmas. There wasn't anything to look forward to or keep me up. I just couldn't sleep a lot. I was a screwed up kid. Anyway, the later it was, the harder it got. So I'd pretend. I'd lie real still, shut my eyes, and then somehow fall asleep. 

Tonight, somehow, I don't think it's gonna work. My hand feels empty and my back still hurts and it's cold enough that I can taste the snow in the air. 

I shut my eyes anyway. At least I think I do. The snow sounds like it's drifting up against the tent, covering it up, smothering it, wiping us out. 

But maybe it's not. Fraser says I have an active imagination. 

Fraser says a lot of things. He says he can see in the dark, but he can't even see what's right in his face. 

I think I close my eyes, but I'm not sure. I try not to think about snow. And then I realize that what I am is drifting. 

* * *

MAY 31, 1998 

I'm starting to think Canadians have hospitality genes built-in. Like they can't help themselves. 

Fraser's got the front page spread out in front of his face, facing me. In Chicago, it'd say, "Three murdered in their own home" or "Fire consumes local bowling alley." Here, it's "Welcome Back, Sun!" two inches high over this picture of--big surprise--snow. 

Now do not get me wrong. I appreciate the sentiment. I do. Sunshine's good. Just not at eight a.m. on a Sunday. Besides which, I do _not_ need exclamation marks before ten, maybe eleven. What I need is coffee, but we ran out, and Fraser, who doesn't drink the stuff, forgot to buy more. 

It's not even today's paper. Fraser said he had some catching up to do, so he's reading back issues of the _Inuvik Drum_. The pile's four inches thick, and it's not a meaty paper, and no, I have no idea where he got them. 

He's not skimming them. He's _reading_ them, front to back. With all the news that's fit to print up here, you'd figure it should take him about five minutes, but he's into it, and he's Fraser, so check with me sometime next year. 

I've got _today's_ paper, with the want ads spread out, even though I know what I want's not listed. 

I know. I should not be complaining. I should be doing a jig. We got Muldoon three and a half months ago, and no, I will not be forgetting that date anytime soon. The Mounties should hire Frobisher out for parties. Let him host the Oscars. Heh. Anyway, we set off to find Franklin three days later, which was just enough time for me to come off the adrenaline high and remember that I do not actually enjoy being cold. Fraser figured it'd take a month, at least, before they would want him in court, so we went, and now we're back. 

The sun's been back since April, and we've been back since, um, May first or second, I think. And the score is now Franklin: one; Cop and Mountie: zero; toes and fingers: forty, not counting Dief, who's snuffling at my leg. I hand him a piece of buttered toast, which he sniffs at and ignores. It's not a donut, but donuts are expensive and I'm cheap. 

Fraser doesn't say anything anymore about my feeding Dief toast, which kind of takes the fun out of it. I'm not even sure he notices me sitting here. I haven't heard an Inuit story since we got back and he started work, which you could look at as a blessing, depending on your point of view. 

I'm not complaining, or anything. But. It's just the coming back--it wasn't what I expected. I don't know what I expected. Frobisher wasn't there to give some nonsensical speech about our forefathers packed in ice, so we just woke up one morning and packed up our packs, rolled up our rolls, folded our tent, and loaded the sled. And that, as they say, was that, except Fraser, egged on by Dief's whining, took us on a detour to Yellowknife to see something called a Caribou Carnival. Not to be missed if you got a thing for watching Dief cheer on the Dog Derby. Dief's pretty easy to please. Me, less so. 

I mean, if you're looking for your hat, and it's cold out, you've got your choice: keep looking or go on without it, face the elements on your own. But that's hats. Hats are easy. 

But it's hard to figure out when to end something when you haven't found what you were looking for. 

You tell yourself, "maybe it's around the next corner, but you'll never find it because you just gave up" so for a while, it carries you. But then you've gotta ask yourself if maybe it's time to call time. Maybe you can live without it; maybe you can't. 

Did we give up too early? I'm not a philosopher, but questions like that can nag at you. 

We ran out of ice and Fraser ran out of vacation days and Inuit stories at about the same time I ran out of dry clothes and the adventuring spirit, which it turns out is triggered in me by sudden, suicidal brushes with danger. Yeah, I fell for the crevasse trick one more time, except this time, Fraser managed to pull me and my sorry ass out before I joined Franklin and his Merry Men on Ice. 

So that's the sum of it. We came back and Fraser and I shook the snow out of our boots and coats and socks and underwear. 

Fraser tells me winter's almost over. I don't know what comes next. Summer, maybe, I hope. 

Fraser bought a lamp with a weird bulb, which brings his furniture total up to five pieces, not including the bedrolls and the single bed he's letting me sleep on. He turns the lamp on and says, "Sit, Ray." So I sit and he looks relieved to get me out of his neatly combed hair. Fraser says I got "seasonal defective disorder." That's one word for it, I guess. 

I'm thirty-eight and sitting under a sunlamp in the Mountie's ticky-tacky kitchen in one of these ticky-tacky tract houses in the middle of small town, Canada. 

Weekdays, Fraser's up at five, in his brown uniform, and out the door. I don't even usually hear him leave. Sometimes, he's gone for three days, sometimes four. Sometimes, he's home that night. He doesn't wake me up to say hello, good-bye or leave Mr. Coffee on. He knows I know where it is. He knows I know he bought it for me and my addiction. 

And I don't see myself standing by the door, handing him a packed lunch. 

When he gets home, he's usually beat, so I don't ask how his day was, and he doesn't ask me about mine, which is good because I got nothing. I sleep a lot. Between Fraser and me, it's pretty quiet, but we've got Dief, who apparently has a lot going on and, if you believe Fraser, lots to say about it. Me?--I think too much, without ever really getting anywhere with it. Sometimes, when Dief's here and not hanging with Fraser, I ask his opinion, but he's staying out of it. Smart wolf. 

Did I mention that I sleep a lot? 

With Stella, it got so I wanted to fight, just cause it felt... I dunno... intimate. Like we had a connection there. I'd push, she'd push back, we'd get a rhythm going. Bam! Snap, crackle, pop-- connection: my fist in her hair, her nails in my back, dancing in the dark. 

Yeah, I know. It's sick. It's twisted. You see a ring on my finger? 

Perspective. I'm getting that. Take off my glasses and I'm blind as a frigging fruit bat. I know this. You know this. The goddamn perps shooting at us probably know this. But do I wear my glasses? By the same token, take away my marriage and it takes me over a year before I can tell you why Stella and me split. By which point I got guys with bombs on their chests appealing to me for sympathy and understanding. 

Stella was right about one thing: it's a very strange and disturbing thing when you figure out you don't have anything left to say except, "Did you pay the phone bill?" 

There's a sale on snowmobiles at Bob's and a two bedroom flat to let-- with a view. A view of what, is the question. I've come to the conclusion that I like trees as much as the next guy. Of course, the next guy's Fraser, who likes trees maybe more than is perfectly healthy, if you ask me. 

Last Saturday, I caught him hugging one. He said he was listening for sap and muttered something about forecasting a seasonal change. I say he spends too much time in the out of doors. 

But it pays the bills, including the phone, and I--I don't know what the hell I do. I try not to get in Dief's hair, and I leave money out for groceries, except it keeps finding its way back inside my wallet. Like I said--it's the hospitality gene. Doesn't matter--it's the green kind. I keep forgetting to go get the rest of my hundreds changed over. 

Yesterday, which would be Saturday, I spent the morning at the library, surfing the 'net. There's a lot of information on Canada out there that don't involve shoveling snow or chopping firewood. 

For instance, they've got this immigration test online now, so I took it, just for the hell of it. 

Maximum score's 107, and you need a 70 to pass. Should be cake, right? Canadians being so nice and polite--they oughta let just about any idiot in, right? 

Not this idiot. The Canadians do not want one Stanley Raymond Kowalski. I took the test three times, once as me pretending to be Vecchio, once as me not pretending to be Vecchio (and yeah, even I had to think about that), and once as Fraser pretending to be American. Fraser's good to go, but Vecchio got fewer points than Kowalski did, which isn't saying much, since Kowalski did the math ten times now and the best he got was fifty-four. 

Turns out point five-oh-four-six-seven-two-eight-nine-seven-two is the loneliest number that you ever heard. 

* * *

June 11, 1998 

I tell Fraser I have to go to Yellowknife for a few days. He says, "I can suggest accommodations." I tell him I've got it covered. He nods, doesn't ask why I'm going up there. Don't ask, don't tell. We got a system. It's quiet, but it works for us. 

The flight to Yellowknife is so turbulent I'm seriously thinking of jumping out and walking the rest of the way. But I figure I'd just get frostbite and die, which would defeat the purpose. 

Although dying on Canadian soil may just be the only way I'm going to get buried here. 

But that's just me being pessimistic. I give up too easy, I'll never know, right? What do I know about immigration? Hale and Jameson, esquires, have that same test online for you to send to in for a free evaluation, so I sent it, NOC/ETF scores and all, and they sent me a message back, inviting me to come talk to them. I bet they say that to all the guys, but what the hell, right? What's one more lawyer, in the scheme of things? 

I get in to see Hale, who's a big guy, maybe sixty--takes up most of the space behind his desk, and it's not a small desk. Wood paneled office, one of those Persian rugs on the floor. Big window right behind him, looking out onto the street. With the light coming in behind him, I've got to squint to make him out. Nice effect. 

He takes his glasses off, looks me over. I can tell he's looking at the hair. It's blond. Blonder. Blondie, actually, although I was sort of going for a Billy Idol thing with it. I think I fried it, though, 'cause the gel's not doing shit to keep it up. Fraser's gonna hate it. I look like a freak, and not in the way he sometimes gets. 

Hale sort of nods. I nod back. The feeling's mutual, I guess. I put my glasses on. Maybe Canada's short on its quota of blind, blond geeks. 

Hale's got my printed out form in front of him, all the "i"s dotted. 

"Alright, let's see what we will see, Mister Kowalski, yes? Yes. Yes. Right, then. I see that you're a police officer...." 

Yes yes yes. This guy reminds me of my fourth grade teacher. Except he used to say "hmm" a lot. Tomorrow's homework is hmm read chapters hmm one through hmm three. I don't know why that was so fucking funny back then. Kids are stupid, I guess. 

Hale's still waiting for confirmation, so I say, "Detective, First Grade, 27th precinct, Chicago," and almost add a "Sir" on there, but I don't. 

He nods again, sticks his finger in his ear, kind of digs in there. I'm liking him a little better for it. 

"Detective, yes. Four citations for bravery. Hmm. Thirty-eight years old, unmarried. And you're interested in residency as an independent emigre?" 

"I'm, uh, divorced. No kids," I say, then figure out what he means, but it's too late. He's already off and reading me the definition of independent, correcting me without correcting me, unlike Fraser, who just sort of corrects you, period. 

I pretend to listen, then wait for him to take a breath. 

"Yeah, independent. That's me. Footloose and free for anything fancy." I shut myself up before I start dancing on the Persian rug. Free. If you don't count the turtle stayin' at Frannie's, the apartment I'm paying for but not living in, and the job I'm on indefinite leave from. 

Not to mention Fraser. 

So far, Welsh's called and left three messages asking when I'm coming back. I haven't called him back. Fraser hasn't said anything. Welsh is out of patience, and I'm out of excuses. 

"And your annual income is...hmmm." 

Hmmm. My feelings exactly. "It's not much, but heh--I got major medical. Thank god for that, right?" 

He nods, a frown still on his face I can see what he's thinking. Fraser would've just come out with the lecture on the superiority of the welfare state, which is of no use whatsoever since you've gotta be born here to get that hand reaching out to you. 

"Savings.... Other assets... yes, yes.... now...." 

Hale's still reading, every once in a while reading off something, like he wants me to confirm it. 

He taps the booklet with his finger and I try to read my form upside down, even though I know what it says. Me, trying to argue I'm a "Mechanical Repairer, Motor Vehicle Manufacturing " or a "Motor Vehicle Mechanic and Technician." But they didn't have cop listed on the Occupations list, so if they don't buy that I can fix engines for a living, I'm fucked. 

He's not saying anything. Don't know what that means, if he buys the mechanic thing or not. He's squinting at the form and puts his glasses back on. 

I'm getting twitchy. I don't wait so good. "I, um, read the stuff--the information on the official site." Which basically says that I either have the startup money to open my own business, which I don't have, or chance it that someone wants to hire themselves a very amateur grease monkey. 

"Good, good," he says, finally, which is a nice break from yes yes. "That'll save us some time I would otherwise spend going over what you've already read. Immigration is a complex business. There are..." 

He keeps talking, because that's what Canadians do when they're not grunting "hmm" and "ah" at you, but I sort of blank out and look out the window while he goes over what I already know that he's not going to tell me again. Just like my fourth grade teacher, except back then I hadn't done the reading. Still looked out the window, though. A nice looking woman passes by, wearing a good suit, and for a minute, I get sort of sad for no reason that makes sense. 

I tune in again when he clears his throat. Caught dozing. I try to look casual, wait for him to repeat himself. 

"--for wishing to emigrate?" 

"Huh?" 

"You left that section blank, Mister Kowalski." 

"I did?" 

"Yes. Your reasons for wishing to emigrate." 

Yeah, I remember leaving that part blank. "Does it, uh, really matter?" 

He smiles, takes his glasses off, and turns on that little green and brass lamp next to him. His eyes are the same color as Dief's--a sort of old-man watery blue. I think about offering him a donut, which is what I bought for breakfast, then I remember what he's asking me and remember none of this is all that funny. "Well yes, I'm afraid it does matter very much. It _will_ come up in the interview process, you understand." 

"Huh. 

"Then your reason would be...?" 

I mumble, try to say it quick. Sometimes, that works if you have the wrong answer. 

"Pardon?" 

"Mountie. A Mountie. RCMP. Mountie." 

"Ah yes. Well, wouldn't we all." He chuckles to himself, but I don't get the joke. "Well." He catches his breath and I'm tapping my fingers on the chair arm and have to grip it hard to stop. "I am sorry, Mister Kowalski, but I'm afraid that, at your age, it is unlikely that you could find employment with the RCMP, even with your police training." 

"Me? No, not--no. Look, I don't-- I want--" I shut up. 

Hale looks back down at the form, then back at me. He doesn't get it. 

Hell, I'm not sure I get it either. "Look, it's just the one--just one Mountie." 

That frown again, those watery eyes narrow. "Ah. Have you considered marriage?" 

"N--huh?" 

Something on my face must show, because he starts to apologize. "Ah, I see, Mister Kowalski. Well--" 

"Ray. It's just--just--uh--look--Mr. Hale--this--this isn't such a good idea. I'll, uh--" Fuck fuck fuck. I shut my mouth, clamp down on it, suck it the fuck in before I embarrass myself anymore than I have already. 

The guy's staring at me with those doggy eyes, then catches on that he's staring, and his face blanks out and he nods--customer's always right. He gets it but he doesn't get it, and I still like him, even feel a little sorry for wasting his time. Then I remember how much I'd be paying him if this had worked. Another fucking Persian rug, on me. 

"Yes, well..." he clears his throat. "It is a big step. Perhaps you should give it some more time, clarify your reasons before you decide to make what is, after all, quite a long and involved process... yes, yes. It is quite a commitment." 

"Yes. Yes. Look, I'll, um, do that. Think on it. Thanks. Really." I mean that, and he smiles, but those doggy eyes are still looking right at me, like he can see right into my head and back out the other side. 

* * *

I haven't since I got the Vecchio job. He didn't smoke, so I didn't smoke. Stupid reason to quit, right? I mean, the guy's a balding Italian brunette with a huge fucking honker, and he wears shiny suits--so they're gonna notice I got a butt hanging out of my mouth? Yeah, well, I wanted to quit, sort of, and it was as good an excuse as I was gonna get. Plus, Stella always wanted me to stop, and so then she dumps me and, hell, who am I if not a masochist--I figure, take _that_ Stella. And I go cold turkey. 

I think I ate a whole fucking bag of those little salad carrots that first day. The peeled ones--like eating little orange fingers. I can't even look at them now. 

So, there goes the appetite. And I still want a smoke. 

Funny, now I'm not Vecchio, I can smoke if I want to. Hell, I can do anything I fucking well please. 

Almost anything. 

Coffee. Coffee's always good. I decide on a cup of coffee, then I figure I'm going back to the hotel and then... what? The reservations for the week. I figured I'd need to stay over a few more days, for the paperwork--I don't know. Hell, I never immigrated. Emigrated? Whatever it is--looks like I'm not doing it. 

C'est la vie. 

* * *

JUNE 13, 1998 

"You don't like it." 

I'm back, still nauseous from staring at the ground from the prop plane. Fraser shakes his head too quick, starts to say something, then stops. 

"Forget it. It's short. It'll grow out." 

I don't even know why I care. I got off the plane an hour ago and now I'm not even sure _I_ like it. But it's temporary. Most things are. 

He's got his big mouth open again, like he's finally found the answer in Miss Manners. Figures they'd have something on what to do when your room-mate's hair gets more experimental. "No, it's... a surprise. Ray, what made you--" 

"I dunno. Just... felt like a change." Look, I'm on vacation. That's what I told them at the border. And guys on vacation--okay, so most of them grow beards. 

Fraser's obviously thinking the same thing, so I keep talking, justifying anyway. "I felt stale, y'know? Been Vecchio so long, I figured now I'm back to Kowalski, it's time I do something Kowalski." 

"And bleaching your hair is something Kowalski?" he asks real quiet, but underneath, I can hear the snark hiding. 

I grin, get up from where I'm leaning on the kitchen counter, do a little spin for him, follow it up with a little cha-cha. "Yeah. Definitely Kowalski." 

Fraser's still looking at my hair, and frowning a little. "So I take it you're no longer feeling... stale?" 

"Nope." I run a hand through the hair. It doesn't feel all that blond, but it's pretty stiff with gel, so it doesn't move, either. Aside from the hair, I came back from Yellowknife with a new leather jacket to replace the one I lost on the Henry Allen, two pair of jeans to replace the ones I killed on our Adventure, and a black T-shirt to replace the one I ripped chopping wood last week. I get now why Vecchio was lying in the hospital with a bullet in him, complaining about his Armani. The guy's a style pig, but he's got a point. Fraser's like one of those dryers that loses your socks, except you partner with the Mountie long enough and your whole wardrobe goes "whoosh," out a window. Or a plane. Or a tall ship. Or a submersible. You start to wonder what the guy has against silk and cotton. Heh. Maybe if I wore wool.... 

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." He nods, as if he's come to grips with the hair thing. It occurs to me suddenly that this is the first time he's really looked me in the eye since we got back from our Adventure. I'm wondering what comes next. I'm actually hoping he's got an Inuit story about hair. "I was considering reheating yesterday's stew for dinner." 

"Sounds good." I'm lucky, because Fraser's stew's not bad, even though he's stingy with the salt-- has something against high blood pressure. That, I don't get that. Live fast, die young, ride a Hogg--that's my new motto. I'm one for three, anyway. 

Although whether living in a tract-house with a Mountie counts as "living fast" is debatable. 

Fraser goes into the kitchen and starts making busy kitchen noises with the pans while he asks me about Yellowknife. I make up some tourist story which is half true. The trick to lying is not giving up too many details. Then he tells me about his day rounding up snow into little piles. 

He keeps looking at the hair, then runs his hand through his, messing up the neat wave he had going. Now that he's back home, he keeps saying he's going to cut his hair real short--like a recruit. 

I think about suggesting he bleach it, but I don't say it. 

I just shut up and eat what he feeds me 

* * *

JUNE 15, 1998 

A couple of days go by, same as always, and then he says, "The Lieutenant called again." 

The "leftenant" called. Like he doesn't have a name. I know which one he means, so I don't bother playing dumb. "Yeah?" I ask, like I don't give a damn. I didn't say I was going to make it easy on him, either. I know my rights. 

"Yes. I saved the message for you." 

"Huh." 

I sit down at the table, look down at the bowl Fraser drops in front of me. Well, he doesn't drop it. He sets it down, centers it right on the placemat with a little bit-back sigh, like he's not expecting much of a tip, then he sits down himself. Hospitality gene's wearing a bit thin, there. I pick up my spoon, nod at him, and he starts eating, so I take my cue and start shoveling it in. Leftover stew, three nights in a row now. Two nights, really. The first night it was new stew. Lucky for me, I like leftovers more than I like cooking. Fraser, when he cooks, likes to make a lot and freeze it for when time's short. This week, there's been plenty of time, though. Definitely a message, there. Cook your own damn food, you out-of-work loser. 

"Yes, Ray," Fraser starts in again, his voice a half a shade from snippy--surface polite. Lots of surface there. "The Lieutenant sounded rather annoyed, although I suppose his voice could merely be reflecting the normal stresses of the job. Still, I'm sure he would appreci--" 

"I'll get right on it." I don't interrupt him much, because it's not polite. Neither's not getting back to Welsh, but since I don't know what to say to him, I haven't bothered to call him back. When I do, I will. 

I shift in my seat, wince a little trying to get comfortable. I didn't try on the jeans while I was in the store in Yellowknife. Just bought my usual size. But I must've put on a few pemmican pounds since I got here, 'cause they're actually a little tight. Not uncomfortable tight, but not like I usually wear them. If I keep eating what Fraser keeps feeding me, they might not fit in a month. Fraser's motto seems to be starve a cold, feed a guest. Ma Vecchio must've rubbed off on him. 

"Here--give me the phone." 

Fraser just looks at me and doesn't get up, so I get up and make a big show of picking up the receiver and dialing. The time difference isn't that different, but I still get the machine, leave a message. "Lieu--hey, sorry I didn't get back." No excuses--he hates excuses. "Look--I'll see you next week, on--" I stop, realize I haven't even bought a ticket yet. Maybe they'll be booked up. Yeah, right. In the sudden mass exodus from Canada. I finish what I was saying, "Monday." That'll give me all of this week to pack, say my good-byes. 

I swallow, clear my throat, remember I'm still talking to the machine. "Okay, so don't bother meeting me at the airport." It's a joke, not very funny. But I'm under pressure, here. "Look, I'll double-check my flight, and call you later. Bye. Oh, uh, this's Ray. Kowalski." I figure he knows my voice, but... 

I hang up, turn around. 

Fraser's looking down at his three day old stew. 

I sit back down and finish eating. Have seconds. In six days, it's back to the pizza and coffee one meal a day diet, so what the hell. 

While I'm doing the dishes, Fraser's finishing his tea, still sitting at the kitchen table. Finally, he stands up, and I can hear him push his chair in. "When were you going to tell me?" 

"C'mon, Frase--" I turn around partways so I can see him standing against the breakfast bar. "Adventure's gotta end sometime, right?" 

"Yes. I suppose it does. The Lieutenant will be glad to have you back." 

"Yeah." I don't add that I'll be glad to be back. In a month or two, when I remember how to be a cop again, maybe I will. 

"I'll finish those up, if you like." 

"No, I got 'em." 

He keeps standing there after I turn around and finish the dishes. I can feel his eyes on my back. And I wonder what Welsh'll say about my new do. 

* * *

Fraser takes the rest of the week off, with no notice, nothing. The RCMP's probably declaring a national holiday, just to be on the safe side. Me? I'm pretty shocked myself. 

"As you say, 'the adventure's gotta end sometime, right?'" Fraser sounds weird, quoting me like that. He's leaning against the doorframe, looking like he wants to come in. But he won't. He never comes into my room--which is his room--unless I invite him. Freak. 

"Yup." 

"If you fold the sleeves to the back, then fold the whole in half," Fraser makes a motion in the air to demonstrate. 

I toss him a shirt, which he catches and folds so fast it's just a blur of blue cotton. I toss him another, and since even Fraser needs two hands to fold, he actually comes into the room and sets the folded T-shirt on the bed. We don't say anything for a few minutes--and it really sucks that he's run out of Inuit stories. He finishes folding the rest of the laundry, except for the underwear, which he eyes before I take it and shove it into the suitcase. 

I came here with the shirt on my back and not a lot else. I'm leaving with a whole new wardrobe, most of which I bought before we started looking for Franklin and I started eating like--well, like Fraser. I had to actually buy two suitcases just so I can haul-ass home. 

"So, what would you like to do your last week in Inuvik?" he finally asks in this fake hearty tone that makes me angry right away. 

"I think I've seen all the tourist spots, here, Fraser." 

"Yes, well. I suppose you have. Still, there's plenty to do." And Fraser, being Fraser, starts listing local events like they're paying him to memorize the community calendar. 

I paste a smile on, say "whatever" sounds good, because I don't know what else to do. If Fraser wants to play host for the rest of the week, I'll play tourist on vacation. I can do that. 

* * *

We go to the local art show on Tuesday. It's not bad. I think about buying something, then remember I hate souvenirs and besides, I've got too much baggage already. On Wednesday, Fraser finds us some ice that hasn't thawed yet and we take Dief, who skitters around like Bambi. I don't look much better, no surprise there. Okay, so I'm not bad for an amateur American. I can stand up, move forward pretty fast, and, long as I got my glasses, I can score the occasional goal. Fraser's easing up on the defense, so I get a few shots in, anyway. He's not bad -- for a professional. I don't begrudge him that. He doesn't get much chance to show off in Chicago, so he beats me hands down, sticks up -- but not above the waist, this being Fraser. 

"Here." He's got hot chocolate in a thermos and hands me a cup. 

"Thanks." 

We sit back on the tarp we brought, tired, but not too tired to care about getting wetter than we already are. His cheeks are pink, and he sets the thermos down and rubs his hands together, blowing on them. His big hands are red at the knuckles. Mine are pink all over. It might be Spring up here, but it gets cold when the sun starts to go, and it goes down early. 

"Good game, Ray." He's smiling, and I smile back. 

"Yep." 

We look at the snow some more, and but I keep one eye on him, expecting him to say something more. He doesn't for a bit, so we just sit there, taking in the white. Look at it long enough, and the snow starts painting shapes on your eyes, so even when you close them, you can see Canada there. 

I'm seriously studying my eyelids when Fraser clears his throat and I look over. "You really should try curling. I think you're a natural talent." 

I raise an eyebrow, look over at him sideways. He looks dead-on serious. "Not in this lifetime." 

"Ah well. Constable Turnbull will be disappointed." 

"Oh, will he?" I say, like I'm surprised. Still, it's funny--Fraser doesn't talk about Turnbull, or Thatcher, or Frannie (not that there's much to say about Frannie). He talks about Vecchio some. But it's still--distant. Like it happened in some other life, or something. Right after we got back, we started catching up, reconnecting, I guess, with the real world with people in it. We got over laughing at the idea of Turnbull in politics around the time we heard he was in the hospital, with a couple of broken ribs. I sent a card and Fraser signed it, but I could tell he wasn't sure what to write. Finally, he just put his name down. Turnbull's like one of those cats that ends up falling asleep behind a car tailpipe over and over. Too stupid to die, but you gotta wonder how many lives they have. On the other hand, he kind of grows on you, if you let him. At least he don't shed. 

Thatcher--I don't have much to say on that front that Fraser wants to hear. She got a promotion. Fraser sent her a letter, and she sent one back, so Fraser had to send her another one. I think she'll blink first. 

Frannie. Huh. I think Fraser was pretty relieved to leave her back in Chicago, at least at first. It's weird, but out of everybody, I think I could learn to miss her. I don't know--maybe, in some alternate universe where I've got a goatee and Fraser robs banks or something. But Vecchio's a pretty good shot, and Stella's husband's sister-- that's an accident waiting to happen, and I don't got Turnbull's luck with trucks. 

That leaves Stella and Vecchio. Except they left first, so really: fuck 'em. 

"Hmm." Fraser takes a sip of his hot chocolate. "I'd promised him that I would make a curler out of you yet." 

I stall some, refill my cup, emptying out the thermos, take some time to get my head back around curling, around Turnbull and hot chocolate, and the here and now of things as they are, Fraser and me making small talk. "So how much didja put down?" 

"Put down?" 

"C'mon, Frase. How much did you bet you could get me to push a broom?" 

"Ah. Well, I never bet for money, as you know." 

He cracks a grin, and for a second, I've got to look away, at the ice, until I can breathe again. But I suck it back in, and I manage to smile back, play along. 

"You do know there's not enough air in Canada." 

"Ah, but Turnbull did offer to rebuild my father's cabin if I sent him a photograph of you curling. I could hardly turn the bet down." 

"Huh. Turnbull with a saw. Tempting, but... no. You have a camera?" 

Fraser grins that grin again, and this time, I'm prepared for it, and I'm good. 

We go home--back to Fraser's place--and Fraser digs out his father's camera--a pretty decent old SLR--and for the rest of the week he brings it out with us. I don't go curling, and I don't ask him why he never took it out before. Maybe he's not into pictures. With his memory, he probably keeps it all in his head. Or maybe it didn't occur to him until now that he'd want to remember any of this. 

Most of the pictures we end up with are of me or of him separate, because we take turns with the camera. But we get a few of the both of us, in front of his house, in front of the Igloo Church, in front of the itty bitty Mountie cabin. And we stop in town and get them developed. 

I may be blind, but it turns out there's something I do better than him. He waits too long to hit the button, and I end up looking like I'm stroking out in all but one of them. I've actually got some talent for putting people in their place, or something. 

We spend a few minutes admiring my pictures and laughing at Fraser's, but when we get back to his place, I put them away in my bag in a ziplock. I can't stand to look at them for long. It's morbid, looking at pictures when I'm still here. 

I wonder if I'll take them out again when I get home. 

I have two albums of pictures of Stella and me. They're boxed up somewhere safe--wherever I put them when I finally gave up. 

* * *

By Saturday, I'm pretty tired of touring around, and Fraser's finally put away his camera. We sit around, not saying much. It's good. Better than trying to make small talk. But it's still awkward. On Sunday, I let Fraser say good-bye to me at the airport, even though I don't want the scene I think I'm going to make of it. After a week of following him around to every good photo op in Inuvik, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. We hug, pat each other on the back. Maybe we both hold on a little too long, but it's the airport, so who's going to notice. 

Fraser finally pushes me off of him and holds me at arms length, gripping my biceps hard through my leather jacket, which still squeaks a little, it's so new. 

"You'll visit?" he asks, and his voice is tight. 

I nod, clear my throat, rasp out, "Sure. Yeah. 'Course." And I mean it, I think. Hell, I don't know. Maybe I will. 

We don't hug again, but I reach down and give Dief a squeeze so hard _he_ squeaks. "Take care, Dief." He wags his tail and pants at me and I pat him on the head, get a little doggy-smell for the road. 

Finally, I get on the little plane and take three Dramamine, hoping they'll knock me out. But they just make me feel like I've got cotton in my head. At least my breakfast stays down and I'm on the inside of the aircraft this time, so I figure I'm doing pretty good. 

On the plane, I've got time to think, which I know I don't do enough of. But instead, I fall asleep, and when I wake up, we're descending. 

* * *

JUNE 22, 1998 

The plane sets down in Yellowknife and I get off and get my bags from the baggage handler before they get loaded onto the connecting flight, which doesn't leave for another half hour. 

On the way out of the airport, I stop at the desk and cancel the rest of my flights. The guy at the desk looks at me funny and tells me there's no refund on the tickets, but I pay the penalty and get an open-ended exchange coupon. 

In just over an hour, I'm sitting in Hale and Company's front office, trying to talk the receptionist into a same-day appointment, and wondering why I haven't called Fraser yet to tell him I'm not on that plane. 

Instead, I call Lieu so he doesn't panic and call Fraser when I don't show up at work Monday. I get his machine, and say I'm going to call him later and explain. I'm hoping I can think of a good story by then. 

Turns out business is as slow as I think it is and Hale can see me at four, so I call another taxi and get a room at the same hotel I stayed in last time--except this time the room's smaller and there's no view. But there's a picture of a snowy mountain on the wall. I think it's the same picture they put up all over Canada, just in case you don't got a window handy. Or maybe it's a different mountain. They all look pretty much the same to me--better from a distance. 

I stare at the damned thing until I fall asleep, and in my dream I'm hanging off the side of a mountain in that hammock, and Fraser's standing there, next to me, and his legs are frozen to the side of the mountain or something, because he's sort of standing-hanging there at a really weird, scary angle, like one of those mountain climbing goats. And he's saying, "Turtles, Ray," over and over. 

I wake up, falling. 

But I'm hungry, so I go out and get something to eat. 

I wander around trying to find a restaurant until I realize I'm looking for three day old stew. What I end up with--and I don't care what they call it--it's definitely not pizza. But I'm scared shitless, so I eat three slices and get heartburn. At least the bad, over-priced coffee washes down the Tums. 

* * *

"Look, you should know. It's a guy." 

"The Mountie?" 

"Yeah. The Mountie." I remember why I liked this guy and hate lawyers in general. Hale's quick on the uptake. 

"That does complicate things, Ray." He remembered that, too. I don't know why I want him to call me that. Maybe I'm afraid I won't answer to Kowalski. Kowalski, Kowalski--it still sounds like somebody else. Somebody I don't know--somebody who wears wife-beaters and smokes and yells a lot. 

Okay, so maybe I know the guy. 

I shrug. "Yeah, don't it just." I manage to smile, because I feel my shoulders tightening up, and sometimes it helps.. 

"Are you--that is, the permanence of this relationship...?" 

"We're tight," I say. We're so tight he thinks I'm headed for Chicago. But whatever, right? 

"Good, good." He doesn't sound like he believes me, but he's moving on down his checklist. "Yes... well, as I started to say, your application looks--" 

"Pretty bad, huh?" 

He looks up sharply, narrowing those watery eyes at me. "Not at all, Ray. There are, of course, things we can do to improve your application. The job outlook in Inuvik, for instance...I assume that is where the, ah, Mountie works?--you have a prior working relationship with the RCMP?" 

"Yeah. Uh--yeah. The, uh, Constable was liaison to the twenty-seventh. Precinct. He, uh, first came--" 

"Yes. I see. And, of course, your status will in no way impact upon your application." 

He cut me off right as I was about to explain, and for a second, I get pissed off. Then I hear what I said. 

"My, uh--status?" 

"Your--that is, your relationship. With the Constable." 

I don't wonder if he means the working relationship, because he put it in quotes with his voice. My quote-unquote relationship. _That_ status. Status, unknown. Shit, I don't even know what my status is. 

Maybe he can't read minds, because he just keeps talking, about landed immigrant status and work visas, and housing and how many months it takes between your application being approved and finally becoming a Canadian. And I pull out my little notebook and start taking notes until my hand cramps up. 

* * *

JUNE 23, 1998 

It's the longest day of my life, and I do mean that. I keep looking at my watch, and time keeps ticking by. Up till now, I haven't wanted to call, but right now, I do. I don't, though, 'cause I don't know what I'd say. "Hi, it's me," is about as far as I get in my head, and then things get weird. Do I say I'm still in Canada? Do I lie? He could probably tell from the way the sound waves echo off the pine trees. Besides, if I tell him I'm still in Canada, do I tell him why? Do I know why? No, I do not. 

So I don't call. 

But today--tonight--I can see myself calling, saying, "Hey, Frase--it's midnight. Do you know where-- 

"Pardon you." I say as some idiots slam into me. 

Fucking drunks. I push past them, play with my calling card some more. I've already had way the hell too much to drink, which is the number one reason not to call Fraser. The French tape I'm listening to is actually starting to make sense. 

The guidebook talks about this like it's some sort of national holiday or natural wonder, but it's more like some sort of freaked out Canadian block party--everybody watching the sun not set, drinking themselves stupid and shopping. 

The sun's going to be out all night, so you might as well buy something, make a holiday of it. Got to make the time pass. I get that. What I don't get is what's with the shopping. I mean, Presidents Day sales I get. That's patriotic. Buy a blender for the Gipper. 

I pick up the phone again, get as far as dialing the first couple of numbers, then remember that I'm _not_ calling Fraser, so I hang up and take out my wallet. Somebody, somewhere, is selling stew. 

* * *

JULY 10, 1998 

They know me at the gym by now. I wasn't sure I could join without being a citizen, but my money's funny like everybody else's. 

Cut me, do I not bleed on the snow? 

I even got a library card. First time I went, the librarian took one look at my hotel address and shook her head. I showed her my badge, but she said policy's policy. I guess people steal library books all over. So I finally took a room in some old lady's house. It's cheaper, I got a kitchen, and at least I don't have to stare at that goddamned white mountain anymore. 

The room's her son's, who moved out to Toronto for college. It's got a bed, a TV with a VCR, and a dresser, but not much else. I bought a cheap little stereo because the radio that came with the room had lousy reception and the tape player ate my Clash. 

Now I've got myself a library card, a video card, a gym membership, a head-cold, and Hale says he's working on the rest of it. T minus who-knows till I can even begin to start counting down to citizenship. I try not to think about work much. 

I sent out some letters. We'll see. 

But I've got a routine now. Mondays I go to the gym, then the library, then back to the house, make myself some lunch in Mrs. Stewart's kitchen, and "don't leave any crumbs behind, thank you kindly." And then I go to my room and read until I get stir-crazy (which doesn't take as long as you'd think). Then I go down to the pizza place or the not-as-trendy-as-they-think-they-are micro-brewery and get dinner. Then I watch a movie and jack off (which doesn't take as long as you'd think) and then I go to sleep. 

Tuesday and Thursdays are pretty much like Mondays and Wednesdays, except I don't go to the gym. 

Everyday, I check the pile of mail by the door. 

Fridays I pay too much for French lessons with this woman Mrs. Stewart recommended who used to teach high school before she retired. She says my accent sucks. I say it wouldn't suck if she was a better teacher. She glares at me, asks if I've gotten _that_ out of my system, I say, "Ooo-we, Madame," and we get down to business. My accent still sucks, but I'm hating her a little less every week, and I'm starting to parle le francaise. 

So that's it. The weekends are hard. At first, I tried to pretend they were part of the week. But that meant going to the gym more, so I said fuck it, and now I spend my weekends walking around, sightseeing, trying not to blow all my money on impulse items. 

Sometimes, I go out and dance. Once in awhile, I get hit on. 

Last week, July 4th, I almost hit back. 

There's this club. Nothing much by Chicago standards. Nothing in Yellowknife is. But fuck Chicago standards, right? 

This place is what it is. Too many teenagers, which is scary, with the low lights making it hard to tell who's legal until you're bumping butts. But the music's good enough to dance to, and loud enough to ignore when it sucks. And, unlike the real world, nobody here talks to you, or looks like they want to talk to you, or comments on the weather in that polite, friendly, Canadian way that makes me wonder if people up here actually _like_ to listen to Fraser's stories--if maybe he's like he is because of _years_ of polite encouragement. 

Nobody encourages me. I'm still on, "Look me in the eye and say that" Chicago time. 

But this time, I'm dancing, and there's this guy, about thirty-five, light brown hair that hits his collar, five ten, dark blue jeans and a not too tight red T-shirt. And he's doing some really awkward thing in the corner that, if you were feeling generous, which I'm not at that particular moment, you might call disco. His feet are doing most of the right things, give or take, but it's like that story about the magic shoes that danced the guy to death. Like he learned the steps but can't hear the music in the rest of his body. 

And he's got this look on his face, like he's wishing he could stop what he was doing, start over. Like he wishes he was somebody else. Or maybe he's wishing he was with somebody else. 

Whatever--he's unhappy, and it's his face that gets me. He's pale, or maybe it's just the lights. Like a ghost person. He looks up right before I figure out I'm staring, and something happens there, a connection is made, one ghost to another. A spark is sparked. The air cracks. Crackles. Something. Happens. 

He stops dancing, for one thing, which I was maybe going to have to arrest him for in another few minutes. Disturbing the peace, public indecency, Hustling without a permit. 

But now, he's just standing there, and he stands better than he dances. A lot better. And I can tell he's thinking. What he's thinking. It's on the half-smile on his ghost face. I mean, I can see it, even in the dark. 

I don't know if I'm dancing, still, or if I'm standing still. I've been dancing for hours, years. I've reached that point where the dancer's the dance, and I could do this in my sleep, sleepwalking to REM, dancing in the dark. I've had way too much to drink, a couple of vodkas, neat, instead of my usual, because the mail came today and I've apparently been here long enough to get on somebody's junkmail list, but I'm still not calling Fraser. 

And I blink, finally, rub my eyes hard enough to hurt, because I can suddenly picture the next few minutes or hours of my life like it's already happened--Redshirt coming over, offering to buy me a drink with some dumb line that's worse than his dancing but appealing because I'm so fucking easy when I'm hard. 

Then the two of us, finding a table in the corner, going hoarse trying to hear each other over the music. Maybe I tell him who I am, if I can remember. Maybe we do some touching hands on the sticky table-top when we reach for our drinks. And then fast-forward, cut to the sex--because that's what's really important here--that's what this is all about--the two of us with our jeans around our ankles, knocking boots and sneakers. His hands on my ass, holding me down, holding me open-- 

Holding me. 

And I can tell--because I can see it, feel it, taste it--that it'd be good. He can't dance for shit, but but but.... But. There's something raw about the way he's looking at me, something open and too goddamn familiar. 

It'd be good. I can see it, feel it, taste it, bitter and hot-hot-hot, like the vodka at the back of my throat. And I'm already hard for it. Christ, I've been hard since Spring of '97. 

So I book it like the chickenshit I am. I find the goddamn door somehow, push through a half a dozen of Yellowknife's answer to clubkids to get to that fucking door that feels like it's miles away. I'm not really seeing anything, because it's too dark, and maybe I've got my eyes shut, I don't know. I'm going by instinct now--flight or fight. 

And then I'm standing outside, sweat sticking my shirt to my skin, and I can feel my heart going "knock knock knockity knock" beating out drum rhythms on my ribcage in time to the backbeat, only a half beat off, like waking up from a nightmare. Seeing yourself in the mirror across the room and not recognizing yourself and spooking the shit out of yourself because at three-thirty in the morning you don't know who you are anymore. 

The door opens again and for one second I wonder what a heart-attack feels like, because I can't breathe; I'm leaning against the wall, scraping my knuckles on the damp bricks, and I can't catch my breath. 

But it's not him--just some girls, old enough for me to take home if I don't look too hard, too drunk to stand up by themselves, and they don't even see me standing there about to puke or pass out. 

I don't do either, but it's a while before I can walk home. 

And the next day, hung over like the dead dog I am, that's when I get the letter. From Fraser, I get a letter from Fraser along with the Visa bill. 

I wrote the post office, asked them to forward my mail here, so I knew it was coming, eventually. It took him longer than I thought, though. 

"Dear Ray" the letter starts. That's as far as I get before I'm running for that door again. I never said I was brave. 

* * *

JULY 30, 1998 

I've been looking in the mirror a lot, staring at the seams. 

I've been wondering what people see in this face. I've got a freak vein pulsing away on my forehead, which is how you can tell I'm not a ghost. Ghosts do not bleed. Stella always liked to touch it and draw little circles around my eyes, which she said were my best feature. Fraser hates my hair but thinks I'm attractive. My mom says I've got a good face, an open face, which sounds like something Fraser'd say. I'm not open, though. I look like my dad, which is what she doesn't say. 

All I'm sure of now is I don't look Italian, and I've still got all my hair, which is just generally a relief. I think I'm starting to look a little Canadian. 

Guys in prison--when they get out (if they get out)--they never look the same. Too much time to think, to wonder how come you ended up where you are. It's not healthy. You can see it in their eyes... The smarter guys spend all their time hitting the books, filing appeals that never go anywhere. Or they write. I put away a guy for armed robbery who ended up writing short stories. He sent me one. I read it. It was about some nut who puts a gypsy curse on this cop's gun, so the cop ends up killing himself with it after shooting his wife and kids. By about the fifth page, I started getting that there was a message in there. Guns don't kill people. Guns with curses on them kill people. 

I wrote him back, told him he should get it published. 

I told him to try it. I double-dared the fucker. 

Anyway, the smart guys--those are the dangerous ones. The dumb guys just look dangerous. Of course, the dumb guys can kick you in the head, too, if that's what it takes. 

* * *

"Freeze," I yell, and I'm running hard, coming around that corner faster than fast. The guy's dead meat. The guy's slow as shit and I'm city fit. 

"Don't move," I say, after I've slammed him against the nearest car door. 

I lean against the guy and try to think. My cellphone doesn't work here, I can't see a payphone (and I'm actually wearing my glasses, so there is no payphone). I don't have cuffs on me, and no gun, since I don't have a permit--in short, I've got no jurisdiction, which is just now sinking in. So basically, what we have here is me about to make a non-citizen's arrest of a guy who looks young enough and dumb enough and blond enough to be my kid, which is in itself a thing I don't want to think too much about right now. He's looking over his shoulder at me with these big, scared eyes, and I bare my teeth at him and smile. 

"Shut. Up." I say, before he says anything. I'm trying to think here. The kid's starting to whimper, so I ease up the pressure on his wrists. It's not like he's going to charge me with police brutality, right? 

I let go when he stops wriggling, and back off, because I'm starting to lose it. 

I am not a cop. 

I'm a cop, yeah, but I'm not a cop, not here, not now, not when it counts. And for the next however many years I've got left, I'm not gonna _be_ a cop. 

I shake my head, hard enough to hear something rattling around inside. 

"Give me the wallet," I say, finally. I could take it. It's bulging from his back pocket like it was from mine about five minutes ago. I let go of his wrists and he slides his hand back and comes out with it, hands it to me. 

"Thank you kindly. Now get lost. I don't want to see you, hear you, smell you again, you got me" 

He turns, still facing the car and looks over his shoulder at me. "I can go?" 

"Did I not just say that? Am I not speaking English? Do you need it in French?" 

"Yeah. I mean, no. Shit!" 

I swear to God, I don't know how Fraser did this. I'm letting the kid go, watching him back his way away from me, like he's still not sure I'm not going to come over and kick him in the head. I'm not sure. The punk lifted my wallet and I'm letting him go. 

But it's that or call in the Mounties and spend the next few weeks in the middle of explaining who I am and how I came to be here, which is frankly something I'm still working out. 

* * *

AUGUST 5, 1998 

I've got a lot to work out, so I do a lot of working out. 

But I gotta say, and this cannot be said enough, I hate hate hate exercise. I mean, I _get_ chopping wood, running after perps, fixing transmissions. But this is... pointless. Boxing's doing something. Mano a mano, pitting your strength, your dedication, your cojones against some guy who's got just as much to lose, maybe more. Hell, hitting a bag-- even that's _doing_ something. The bag's the enemy. The bag's running your audit, rear-ending your car, shortsheeting you at summer camp, saying, "fuck you and the horse you rode in on." 

But there's no decent gym up here--nothing but a couple of "fitness centres" with shiny new equipment and aerobic classes for the masses. This place has a heavy bag, but it's in this squeaky clean corner of the room by the window, and it looks new, like nobody ever hits the damn thing. Maybe they don't. Maybe Canadians feel like they've gotta apologize afterwards, so it's too much fucking trouble. 

I give it a few good body blows, just for the hell of it, but give up when I start to feel like a bully. The bag's gotta at least feel like it _might_ hit back. 

I feel less stupid when I look over and see the chick with the nice ass running three treadmills down. She's here every Wednesday, blonde, big tits bouncing a little in her sports bra, working up a sweat. 

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I would've said something stupid, asked her to spot me on the free weights or something. Now I stare at her ass, doing the left, right, left routine, and she lets me look. Or maybe she just doesn't notice. She's pretty into her own thing over there. I can respect that. 

Fraser dragged my frozen ass behind him for the first few weeks of our Adventure, just until I could keep up, so I got sled-fit pretty quick. Then we got back, and I turned into a pumpkin again when he went off to work and wasn't asking me to jump out of any windows. 

Then I get here, and the first three weeks I'm sitting in my room except for meals and trips out for smokes. 

Yeah, I'll quit again before I go back to Inuvik. 

This is what I'm telling myself. It's a--whattayacallit. Incentive. It's Fraser or the iron lung. 

* * *

AUGUST 15, 1998 

I've got a couple of maps in my room. One of Canada, plus two of just the territories, and one little bitty one of Inuvik that Fraser made up. I hung that one up over the desk. 

Not counting the couple of months after Stella and before Fraser, I've never really been on my own before. I don't even got the turtle, which is pretty pitiful, but it makes a difference. I'm thinking of buying a goldfish or something, but I'm afraid I'm going to start talking to it. 

Worse, he'll probably start talking back. In French. 

"Dear Ray." Dear Ray. Dear Ray. 

I'm going to read that letter. I am. I'm just working up to it. 

* * *

"Dear Mr. Kowalski. 

Thank you for your interest in a position with Northern Alberta Security." 

I get that far, figure it's another brush-off, but then my eye catches something five lines down, and I keep reading. 

"As you may well know, the Canadian Government encourages us to fill vacancies first with qualified citizens, and only then to look elsewhere." 

Right. That's four and counting. Dot it, file it, stick it-- 

"As you may well know... However, in certain circumstances... exceptions for someone with your unique experience and qualifications... pending... " 

And there it is, halfway down the page, because you wouldn't want to get right to the point when you can bury the important shit in the history of Canadian industrial expansion. 

Abracadabra, Open Sesame, Welcome to Canada, thank you kindly and God Save the Queen! 

"Pending an interview. Please contact us as soon as is convenient..." 

I smoke my last cigarette, and it doesn't taste as good as I thought it would. 

* * *

AUGUST 17, 1998 

My sense of Canadian direction being what it is, I have to check the big map to see where the hell I'm headed. 

The plane flight's shorter than I expected. You think, different province, but, looking out the airport window, you can't really see those big bright lines that're on the map. Maybe if you go over Quebec, you can. Or maybe I'm just getting used to small planes. The landing's a little rough, but I'm chewing on a disgustingly huge wad of gum and trying to remember why the hell I ever started smoking again. 

The hotel I booked is cheap and ugly, but the water pressure's good and hot, and I stay in long enough to prune up, then take a razor and shave off the stubble and put on the suit, put on my "make nice for the camera" smile, then take it off again because I'm scaring myself. 

I check my watch, and then head out to hit the local mall. The interview's for four, which I'm starting to think of as my magic number, so I've got some time to kill. 

Inside, I get some coffee at the third coffee shop I pass and grab a bench in front of the Gap. Then I pull out the map they sent me, and get to work. 

By three thirty, I've got my cover down. I know where I am, who I am, and why they can't live without me. 

It does occur to me that if I knew all this five years ago, I might still be married. 

I pass another payphone and think about calling, but I don't. Instead, I buy another cup of coffee and a biscotti so I have something to do with my mouth.  
  


* * *

The office they take me to looks like a janitor's closet with a coat of ugly blue paint, and the muzak pumping in is getting pumped right back out again, pronto, before I have to fly out to London and kick Elton John's candle in the wind. Dan Teslin, CEO, is tapping his foot in time to the song, like there's actually a beat worth dancing to. 

Teslin stops tapping, gets his secretary on the phone, and then starts us off with a tour of the facilities, and by the end of it, I'm almost convinced. I like the setup: cameras, most of them hidden, on-foot surveillance, uniforms and plainclothes patrols, close relations with the RCMP but a mostly independent day-to-day operation. But Mounties are not interchangeable. 

We come back to the office again, and the actual interview's short, just working out details, him asking me for suggestions, me giving them. 

Somehow, when we sit down again, I end up behind the desk, which is about two feet too wide for the space. The chair's killing my back, after a minute, which maybe it wouldn't if I sat up straight in it. But it's good. It's greatness. I sit back in the crappy chair and, for the first time in a few hours, I think I can get by without thinking about a smoke. Then I realize I'm thinking about not thinking about a smoke, but the point's the point. 

I've got breathing room. I've got a room in which to breathe. Granted, the room sucks like a Hoover, and I'm the prettiest thing in it, but I can read body language, and this--this is it: my office we're in, my desk, my crap chair, everything but my name on the door, and I'm thinking I could turn this corner, come into this office, do this job, live this life, be this Canadian, with or without Fraser. 

One step forward, two steps back. Edmonton's got a hockey team. Maybe Fraser'll come down for games. I'm already thinking about bringing Fraser here and showing him around the place, watching him freak out and hide in this closet's closet. I'm thinking about hiding in there with him, if everything works out the way I'm planning. With Fraser. 

I'm thinking about putting up a poster of a snowy mountain. I'm thinking about whether the desk's big enough for what I'm thinking. With Fraser. 

Teslin, clearly not a mind-reader, is kicking back now, asking how I got my commendations. I tell him some good cop stories, and he's listening but not really listening, getting a bead on the way I think, or something, right up till I get to the ugly parts--the parts about Beth Bottrelle and my screw-up there, and for a second, I get the "ugly American" vibe off him, and I get that, I do. We suck. 

Heh. _They_ suck. 

Can't believe the clock's finally started ticking on that one. Countdown to citizenship is at T-minus whatever Hale says when he calls. I can't think that far ahead right now. Can't afford to. It'll kill me if I start thinking like that. 

Teslin's looking at me, like he sees past the face I put on and I get what he's looking for--someone from the mean streets of Chicago who understands that shit and can clean up after the dogs that did it. And I smile the smile that don't go with the nice suit, the smile I don't feel right now--Chicago's answer to Clint Eastwood. If that's what he wants, that's what he gets. 

He's buying it, and it isn't far from the truth. I can be that smile. And then we're shaking on it. Signed, sealed, delivered and done. I start in November, just in time to hit the Christmas shopping season, assuming the paperwork goes through, which, given that Canadians like to prove that a bureaucracy _can_ be a friendly place, it will. 

November--and this is what--August? It's not enough time to get my life in order, but I've been sitting on my ass for so long, I decide don't give a fuck about anything from my old life except Turtle, who I'm planning to smuggle up on the next flight up from Chicago. Everything else can go to the Salvation Army. 

On the way out, I figure out I'm starving and I stop and get a pizza with pineapple and a coffee so sweet it hurts to drink it. Wonder of wonders. The pizza here is almost pizza-like. Chalk another one up for Edmonton, even if it is missing one Mountie. Suddenly, I can hear Fraser asking whether I want some coffee with my sugar and I remember the way he said it, like he was offering something, giving something away he didn't like giving away--like it was kind of embarrassing him that he even knew how I like my coffee. Too intimate, I guess. Like not coming into my room without an invite, even though it was technically _his_ room. 

I'm getting happy and sappy, and suddenly I can't stand it anymore. My fingers leave grease prints on the envelope. I take out the letter and read it, and when I do, I'm glad I waited. 

It says pretty much what I thought it would. I've been taking French for long enough to read the _LeSoleil_ , but I've been reading Fraser for a couple of years, so I translate as I go. 

"Dear Ray." Dear Ray. Dear. Stella used to start little notes to me like that. "Dear Ray, don't forget to pick up the dry cleaning." I like knowing Fraser sat there, trying to figure out how to start, finally settling on that even though it probably embarrassed him to write it down like that where we both had to see it. 

"Dear Ray, 

I hope this letter finds you well in Chicago." 

Translation: The letter found me, the letter knows just where I am, but he doesn't, and it's killing him to have to admit that. 

"You might be interested to hear that, in your absence, the local curling league has begun practices, and they are in need of a good defensive player. I, of course, would volunteer my services but, as I told the coach, Jim Hayes, my work schedule would interfere with the regular season." 

Translation: Fraser's working too much and he's thinking about that last day we spent talking about nothing we should've talked about. 

"Speaking of curling, I've received an update from Renfield on the local election. I'm afraid that recent polls put him behind by a good deal. But he remains optimistic and tells me that his opponent 'lacks persistence of spirit' (by which Renfield means, I assume, that he may not survive to election night; Unfortunately for Renfield, but perhaps fortunate for the city at large, Turnbull may well be disappointed, as his opponent is in remarkable health for a man of eighty-seven.)" 

Translation: Fraser's so lonely he's corresponding with Turnbull. 

"Actually, it might surprise you to learn that I've given some thought to following Renfield's example and entering the political arena. Diefenbaker continues to argue that Canada is best served by my remaining in my current capacity. Of course, his opinion is of little use, is it? I've reminded him that he has almost no knowledge of the current political climate from which to judge. Perhaps when I retire...." 

Translation: He hasn't seen "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" and wouldn't get it if he did see it. Dief might get it. 

"In any case, there's little more to report here. There have been two incidents of breaking and entering at one of the more remote cabins. The chief suspects are local children--the sons of oil workers, if I'm not mistaken. As nothing valuable was taken, the case has been given a low priority." 

Translation: No nuclear subs, no environmental devastation, no windows to jump out, and he's bored out of his skull. He probably goes out to the Beaufort Sea on the weekends and just sits there and doesn't even know what he's looking for. 

"So, that's about it, then, except to say that I very much enjoyed our adventure, which you know..." 

Yeah. I do know. But it's nice to hear it. 

"... and am enclosing a photo that Marjorie Shelburne took the day we visited her. I assured her that I would pass on the message that she looks forward to seeing you again. 

Yours, Benton." 

The picture's wrapped up in another sheet of RCMP stationary and it takes me a minute to unstick the paper from itself and turn it rightside up. 

I'm glad I waited to read the letter, to see this, because I forgot all about the day we visited that shop--one of those tourist traps from hell that we stopped at because I hadn't bought anything for anybody and I promised Frannie I'd get her something from Canada. I think she was hoping I'd bring back Fraser. Or maybe she already knew I wouldn't. Couldn't. 

Mrs. Shelburne was okay, flirting with Fraser like everyone does, and we ended up handing over a shitload of money. Well, I did. Fraser just bought a box of maple sugar maple leaves there, just to be polite, and gave them to me afterwards. 

I bought a couple of flags and T-shirts for whoever, and a book of Canadian jokes for Huey and Dewey. And one of those little Mountie statues, the pewter kind with the bad paint job, the red smeared over where it shouldn't be, with the guy's horse sort of melted down to the base, and the little Mountie frozen on top. I was planning to send it to Welsh as a joke, but I ended up keeping it and sending Welsh a T-shirt that said, "Ride, Forever!" 

In the picture, Fraser and me are standing under a tree next to the building. Fraser's not smiling, but he's turned toward me, and he's standing too close for buddies, right up in my personal space, almost leaning against me. And I look like I don't notice, but I remember that I did. I did notice that, that by the time we got back to Inuvik, Fraser's space was all over my space, even though, by then, we were pretending it wasn't, that we lived in two separate spaces, Fraser in his Mountie-snow space, and me in my head-case space. You'd think, looking at Fraser's office cum sleeping quarters at the Consulate, that Fraser didn't need much space, but you'd be wrong. 

There are 3,323 kilometers between Inuvik and Edmonton, which might just be more than we need. 

* * *

AUGUST 19, 1998 

In two days, I'm on a plane to Yellowknife, then on the phone and fax machine with Hale, who gives me three yeses and a congratulations. Then I call my parents, putting off the inevitable, and it's some very thin ice there. It takes me about an hour to talk my mom down from the ceiling of the RV. She keeps saying, "Oh, my little boy," over and over, which is frankly a little embarrassing, but whatever. And then I talk to my dad, who--get this--thinks the new job's a step up and somehow doesn't hear the rest of it, the shit I'm not saying about Fraser and me that I think my mom heard and didn't want to talk about. Good for him, though. Good for him. He can die proud of his kid. But fuck him, too, because I'm too tired and too wired and too hired to say something stupid I'll regret later, so I bite my tongue and, when that doesn't work, I stick a biscotti in it until I calm down. I still can't believe I'm eating biscotti. Stella would be proud. 

I also call Welsh, speaking of jobs to do. He says he don't accept resignations by fax. I say I'll send him one by pony express if he needs it, but that's it. I'm outta there. He gives in with a half-hearted congratulations, after twenty minutes of "Are you out of your freaking mind?"--all on my dime. 

Without Fraser to make it fit, it takes me two hours to pack my shit together in those two suitcases. The carry-on's still packed and it takes me a minute to figure out that I'm going to want clean clothes, so I unpack it, unpack one of the suitcases, play musical underwear, and then I'm done. The post office will do the rest. 

It takes me three more hours to swing by the dealership and unload a year's salary, Canadian. But what the hell. I'm worth it. 

* * *

AUGUST 21, 1998 

"What's it look like? No, don't answer that. It's a thirty thousand dollar mid-life crisis, alright? Now, get on. We don't got all day." 

The engine's throbbing under me, but Fraser--he doesn't budge. He's standing in front of his rental house, under the porchlight, just staring at me like he still hasn't woken up. He's dressed: wearing jeans and one of his white henleys (I counted--he's got four of them), the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His forearms look pale under the light, under the white. He looks frozen, but then he gets unfrozen, turns around, goes back inside, and comes out wearing his leather jacket, strides over to stand next to the bike. It's used and black, like they all should be in a perfect world. 

"Pitter patter, Frase. Time's a wastin'." 

"And you're not getting any younger," he shoots back at me, a little snappish, I guess, since one a.m. is past his Mountie bedtime. Or maybe he's just not all that happy to see me.  
  
"Got it in one," I agree. In a sane world where I was not acting out the cover of one of Frannie's stupider Harlequins, I'd get off and go inside and we'd talk like normal people, which we don't, since we're not. 

Instead, I rev the engine loud enough to wake the neighbors and get a disapproving frown from Fraser. 

"Get on the bike, Fraser." 

"It's a very nice bike," he says, still frowning at it. But he doesn't get on. 

"Yeah, it is." 

"A touring model?" 

"Yeah. Too big to jump through windows," I warn him, and he nods, the corner of his mouth turning up a little as he finally takes the helmet I hand him and swings a leg over, still keeping a polite distance that won't last once we get moving. 

* * *

He doesn't try to talk while we're on the road, but when I turn off the ignition, he starts right in. "You didn't write." 

"No, I did not." 

He doesn't mention that he did write, but he stiffens up his posture like he just realized he's been leaning against me for the last five miles, just hanging on. 

I shift in my seat and he gets up off the bike, stands next to me, looks at me funny, squints a little. "You pierced your ear." 

Figures, he notices this now that I have helmet-head. It still stings a little. I did it myself, with a needle and an apple. Just like high school, except this time, Stella wasn't around to staunch the blood while I sat on the toilet and this time I did the other side--the right side. The wrong side. Left is right, right is wrong. Which in my case, is right. Heh. I think maybe some people stay in the closet because they just don't know which side to put the goddamn handkerchief. Who the hell knows which ear is right or wrong? I just wanted an earring. 

Fraser cocks his head to the side, and I think he's about to reach out and touch it, but he doesn't. "It suits you." 

"Uh, thanks."  
  
His own hair's damp from sweat and curling on his forehead. The hair's not regulation, but maybe nobody cares when you're not playing Beefeater. Earrings aren't regulation either, which is a shame, really. Okay, so I've got some Harlequin fantasies of my own. 

"Does it have any special significance?" 

"Huh?" I'm still looking at his ears, at the way his hair's curling around them. He has good ears, one on each side of his head. It's kind of a shame he doesn't listen so good sometimes. 

"Is it--your earring--symbolic?" 

"Symbolic?" I pretend to have to think about that. "I dunno. It's not my birthstone." Like I know my birthstone from a hole in the wall. Stella's was amethyst. I think about telling him Yellowknife's the "Diamond Capital of the North." But he probably knows that. I don't know what Inuvik's capital of. Snow, maybe. Boredom. Ennui. Yeah, I got plenty of French words to go around. Maybe in a few years I can talk him into moving to Montreal. And maybe pigs'll pop wings and fly onto my barbecue and we'll have a cookout, Benton and I. 

He's staring at me with that puzzling-out-a-big-problem look, like he's not sure if I'm just playing dumb, or if I'm really as stupid as he thinks I look right now. Dumb fucking blond, that's me. But Fraser's not stupid. Naive, maybe, but not stupid. And for the life of me, I cannot tell if he's asking what he might be asking or if he's just being Fraser. 

He still hasn't asked why I'm back, and we've been driving around in the dark for long enough my butt's starting to get enough feeling back to make me wonder what the hell I was thinking doing an "Easy Rider" from Yellowknife. Fonda and Nicholson and Hopper were ten, fifteen years younger and on some serious painkillers at the time. 

I'm trying to sit as still as he's standing, looking at me, but I've got to move. His tongue's edging out a little onto his lower lip, which is kind of distracting. I don't know anybody but smokers that do that, which reminds me that I need something to take the edge off, but I'm sure as hell not going to light up, because I quit. Plus, I really don't need the lecture. 

My back's all sweaty from where he's was pressed up against me, hanging on for dear life. I don't know how you can miss something that you never had, but I do. I did. My front's sweaty from thinking about him pressing into my back. 

I don't slow on the turns, and we left polite distance about forty miles ago. 

We're on a side road, dirt road, driveway off the highway--about a mile off from nowhere in particular, nobody for miles--and he's studying me like there was gonna be a test later. And he still hasn't asked me what I'm doing here, how long I'm staying, what my plans are. Like it doesn't matter, or he's afraid to ask. 

It's one of those Mexican standoffs and I don't got my poncho. Fraser's not going to welcome me back. I get that, but I swear to god, I'm going to hit him if he keeps up with the "Mrs. Shelburne looks forward to seeing me" polite distance thing. 

There's nothing polite about distance. It's just distance. 

Finally he sighs and tries again. "Is it--your earring--a 'Kowalski thing'?" 

I shrug. "It's just a thing, Frase. A thing I did." 

He looks... disappointed? Okay. Well, then. 

"Fraser, look--" 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"Look..." I run a hand through my hair, which is standing all over the place, where it isn't plastered to my skull. Fraser's staring at it. It's still up, still bleached, but a little longer than it was the last time Fraser hated it. "You really hate the hair?" 

Yellow on top and down the back. I hate myself, I really do. 

"Honestly?" 

"I thought you didn't lie." 

"Well, that's not entirely accurate." 

"Hunh." 

"Although the truth is certainly an ideal worth striving toward, I do occasionally prevaricate, when the demands of polite society require it." 

He almost smiles, a little quirk of his mouth like he's trying not to. For just a second, I can see that crooked tooth. He's like one of those impressionist paintings. Stand too close and it's this mess. You gotta get some distance on it to make sense of it. 

I had a book on that once. Pretty on the outside, hollow on the inside, and hiding things. That's Fraser. Don't judge a book by its cover, I guess is the lesson, there. 

I did the perspective thing with him, without him. Now I just want to pin him down, pin him to the wall, and stare at him until my eyes bleed. 

"Hey, do I look like polite society to you?" I say, because I get that he's evading the question. Prevaricating, which is not the same as lying. 

"No. No you don't." 

"So you and me--honesty's the best policy, right?" 

Fraser has the good grace to look uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I see--" 

"I talked to a lawyer." 

"Ah," he says, which could mean anything at all. 

I get a weird flashback to when Stella said it to me, and I was like, "Yeah, so what's new?" And then she said, "A divorce lawyer" and I punched a hole through the living room drywall and broke two of my fingers hitting a stud. 

This is different. This is so different, it's another planet. Another country, even. 

I don't feel like hitting anything, which is good. I look out at the road ahead of us, but it's empty. I've been traveling for so long, I still feel like I'm moving, even when I stand still--sit still. 

I hear a tapping, look down, and see it's me hitting my knee against the bike. 

I stop, then hear the tapping again. 

Still me. 

"I never made it to Chicago. I've been in Yellowknife, getting my head on, er, straight." Bad pun, and it goes right by him, which is not a surprise. 

"I don't--" 

"I had to figure some things out. That's it." 

I want him to ask me what, but I don't know that I know the answer to that one. What can I say that'd make sense? I drank milk out of bags, bought it with monopoly money, and basically made an ass outta myself trying to picture myself stuck up in buttfuckCanuck for the rest of my life without him. 

Turns out, I can picture it. I needed to know that. I did. But does he need to hear that? 

He nods, just a little bow of his head, and then he looks away. Hell, maybe I _am_ polite society--the house guest from hell ringing the bell too many times. Maybe he figured he was finally rid of me. Stella had to kick me out twice before it finally took. 

I can see Fraser shifting those little gears between the ears, deciding not to ask certain questions, like where my head's been that it needed bleaching, piercing, and screwing on. He still isn't looking at me, but that's okay. I don't need the scrutiny right now. 

He isn't saying anything, and no pirates are falling from the sky, so I play my last card. "I bet you didn't know they got milliners on the National Occupation Classification chart, but not cops." 

Fraser opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Bingo. He's got it. Either he's in shock because he's overcome with happiness that I love him and Canada enough to take the pledge, or he's thinking to himself, "Dear lord, I have a stalker." Both of which are true, actually. 

"I can't say I'm surprised, Ray. With the long winters here, the need for head covering quickly becomes a matter of survival. As much as eighty percent or more of all body heat is lost through the head, relative to temperature and--" 

"Yeah. So my mom tells me. You got a thing for hats, there, Frase. Almost a--" 

"Fetish?" he finishes with a little grin before I can even think of the word I mean. I'm thinking about the fact that he's not wearing his Stetson right now, speaking of looking for hats. 

We're staring at each other, now, and I gotta say something, break the ice, make nice before I do something desperate and stupid, like lunge off the bike and throw myself at him. It'd be easier if somebody was shooting at us, which is fucked up, but true. I wonder if I should talk about curling or politics or snow. I wonder why it's so fucking important that he makes the first move. 

But then he does; he reaches out his hand, and I flinch, which I hope he doesn't notice, because he puts it on my head and starts combing it up and down through my hair. 

It's... nice. Weird, but good. I don't move, because I'm scared he's going to stop, but he doesn't, so I sort of lean up into him, encouraging him, and he runs his hand over the back of my head down to my neck and holds it there, with his thumb on my carotid artery. 

And then he says, real soft, "I thought it was temporary." 

I shrug. "I was wrong. It didn't grow out." 

I'm not sure he gets it, but his hand tightens in my hair, pulling it a little. 

And then he leans in further, and takes off my glasses, and I don't know where he puts them, and I don't care, because suddenly, he's on me, his other hand comes down on my hip, holding me in place, keeping me from sliding off the bike. 

"Hmmm," he says, into my mouth, under my skin. 

"I'm going to Edmonton," I say back, into his mouth, and yeah, I wish I had a better sense of timing, but then I wouldn't be me, and that would be a damned shame, wouldn't it? 

"I'm afraid I don't follow." He says, backing up a little. He starts to do something with his mouth and my neck, which is really, really distracting. 

"You--you--won't. Don't--You don't... don't... ohgod." He's biting down, right there on my neck. 

"Fraser, Fraser, Fraser--" 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"Just--hang on a minute." He stops, but he doesn't pull away. He's still close enough that I can smell him. He smells like sleep-sweat and bike fumes and leather. Nice. Very nice. But I'm not going to get distracted. Leather and sweat and Edmonton. Edmonton. Edmonton. Focus. "Okay, yeah. Okay." I take a deep breath, breathe in some more of Fraser, which does _not_ help. Edmonton. Tell Fraser about Edmonton. Edmonton. Ed-mon-ton. 

If you think Edmonton enough times, it starts to sound funny, which is true of most words. Benton Benton Benton. 

No, that actually sounded funny the first time I heard it. 

Gotta focus here. "So, uh, say hello to the new head of American security relations at the mall." 

"Hello." He leans in, so he's saying it right in my ear. "Hmm. It's a very nice head." 

"Fraser--are you listening to me? You asked, so listen. This is important what I'm telling you here." 

"Yes, Ray. I'm listening. You're...." 

Okay, so what the hell happened to the famous Mountie attention span? "I'm what. What am I doing." 

"Hmm. You're... securing.... an... American." 

"No, I'm--stop that. Listen. This is--"` 

"Important?" He kisses me, and I shake my head, no, then nod, yes. I don't know what I'm saying. 

"It's security, Fraser." 

"Is it," he says, and his hand tightens in my hair again, tipping my head back hard enough to kind of hurt my neck if I don't cooperate. I'm about to fall off my bike here. 

"Hmmm. Fraser. I mean, yes. Listen." 

"I'm listening, Ray." 

"Fraser!" 

"Yesss." 

"Ah. Um. Yeah. Okay. Look, hold on. Back up. What did I just say? Fraser--what did I just say? Say it--back to me." 

"Hmmm. Securing, ah, relations in North America." He pulls back and he looks so hopeful that I'm about to slap myself. 

I sigh. "American American, relations. Fraser. As in, United States of. Jesus. Stop--- _that_. That right there. I can't--Don't--I--" 

"This?" 

"Yeahhh." 

"Hmmm. I believe I have it, now. Ray? You are the head of the American relations division at--was it the West Edmonton Mall?" 

"No, at the 7-11. Think, Fraser. Is there another mall in Edmonton? Do they have _room_ for another mall in Edmonton?" 

I look at him and Fraser's smirking, all palely pretty, red-lipped, his henley tugged out of his jeans, his jeans open at the top button, the zip coming down. I guess I did that to him at some point. I really honestly don't remember. 

I punch him on the arm, because I can't think of what to say. I've been suckered. "Not buddies, Fraser." 

Fraser does _not_ look chastened. 

"So say something. What do you think?" 

"I think..." 

I wait for it. 

"I really do prefer the natural color." 

Nope. Definitely not chastened. 

"Which one?" I manage to get out between giggles. I don't giggle, ever. I don't even laugh all that much. So I figure I'm getting hysterical. "So what color is it you especially liked?" I don't wait for him to answer. "Three months ago it was ash blond. Before that, it was dark blond. Or light brown. I forget which. Before I met you it was orange. Umm hmmm... Like a...." Crayon, I think, and stop laughing. Stella said I looked "ridiculous and juvenile," but then she said it from her side of the courtroom, so I did not take it personally. 

I don't want to think about Stella, but at least the giggles are gone. She has that effect. I wonder if Vecchio's found that out yet, or if he's still laughing it up at the bowling alley. For his sake, I hope so. 

I got Fraser's hands on me, and it takes me a minute to get that he's trying to get his hands under my jacket, under my shirt, and pressing up against my sweaty skin. 

I help, tugging my shirt out of my pants, wondering if I should just take the jacket and the shirt off right there. It's not like there's anybody living out here. 

But Fraser shakes his head, like he's reading my mind, and he stops touching me long enough to get back on the bike again, so that he's pressed up hard against my back. I push back against him, which isn't easy in this position, and he thrusts up against me a couple of times. I'm starting to wonder if this is my Harley wet dream or if this is his and I'm just along for the ride. Personally, in my dream, we're both naked. 

But he shakes his head and grabs my hands, putting them on the handlebars. 

"Drive, Ray," he says, into my ear, and, after I figure out what I did with the keys (they're still in the ignition), I nod and start her up. I put my glasses and helmet on when Fraser hands them to me. 

Then I'm trying to remember how to drive, and where the hell Fraser lives, while he's got his arms around me, holding on tighter than he needs to. 

I'm going slow, even though I want us to be back in town _now_. But the road ahead is dark and I get nervous when it starts to feel like we're headed off the edge of the earth--nothing up ahead but more dark empty space. 

But I don't ask for directions right away. Hell, I'm a guy, okay? I just drive until we pass the same damned tree for the third time, and Fraser figures out my instincts aren't working here and offers me some directions I can follow, and finally, I see the couple of lights that mean we're back in civilization--or what passes for it in Inuvik--and then we're there, in front of his house, and I park the bike in front, glad as hell to dismount. 

"Ray?" 

"Huh?" 

Fraser's made it to the front door, holding it open, and I'm still sitting on the bike, staring at the speedometer, which reads O, cause I'm parked. I can still feel the road moving under me, and Fraser at my back, and finally, I manage to move again. 

Dief's at the door, tail wagging, and suddenly I'm brought back down to earth from wherever I was, and Fraser's just Fraser again, not some guy trying to climb under my skin and see my roots. 

"Welcome to Canada, Ray." He says it like he used to at the Consulate, but softer, and he's looking at me dead in the eye, like he really means it. 

"Uh--thanks." 

"Why don't you take off your jacket?" 

I take it off and he shuts the door behind me. He takes my jacket, hangs it up. 

"And your shirt, Ray." He's holding a hand out, waiting. 

"Sure, uh, yeah." I pull it over my head and off and hand it to him. "Frase?" 

He's gone, and I hear dog food being poured into a dish, and wolf nails clicking down the hall. 

"Yes, Ray?" 

He's back, takes my boots and socks, and disappears again. 

I wait until he comes back to ask, "Do you know what we're doing here?" 

He looks thoughtful. "Well, you were undressing, but you appeared to have stopped while I was taking care of Dief's supper. I meant to ask--do you need further assistance?" 

"Do I--heh--yeah. Sure. Assist." 

Fraser just stands there a second, like he figured I'd say no, and then he's down on his knees, ready to help me out of my jeans and underwear. It's like having your hair washed. Sure, you can do it yourself, but you don't get the free massage. 

He doesn't do the obvious while he's down there, but then I'm not sure what's obvious to him. I'm afraid to ask. I don't think I want to know. 

I'm just starting to get off on looking down at the top of his head as he unbuttons my button fly, when Fraser says, "Aha! I thought as much." 

I'm wondering what he just discovered that he didn't already know about. "Do I want to know?" 

"I _have_ seen your hair in its natural state at least once, Ray." 

"Fraser. Read my lips. No you haven't. You. Have. Not." 

"Yes, I'm quite sure I have." He looks up at me, smug. "Yes, during the Warfield incid--" 

"No."  
  
"Ray, I assure you--I have quite a good eye for color--" 

"And a flair for fashion and interior design. Yeah, I'm getting that vibe, Fraser. But it was a dye job. Do you know how I know this?" I don't wait for him to answer. "I know this because I have not not dyed my hair since '79." 

It suddenly hits me that if the immigration interviewer found out about this, no _way_ would they let me in the country. When did I get this queer? Is this some sort of post-traumatic stress thing from dangling off a plane? Did I frost-bite my brain doing the rinse? I've got a Mountie--hell, _the_ Mountie-- on his knees and eye-level with the goods, and I'm arguing with him about whether I'm a bottle blond. 

"Oh, surely there have been months--" 

"There have _not_ been months. Or weeks, and no, not even days. I'm surprised you didn't smell it. The stuff stinks." 

He frowns. He hates it when I'm right. He's thinking, trying to come up with an excuse for missing something that's right in front of him. I don't point out that, for a Mountie with 20/20, he tends to miss the forest for the trees. Or in this case, the tree. Heh. 

"I--well, I suppose I thought it was your everyday hair care products. You do seem to use quite a few cosmetic--" 

"I do not use cosmetics, Fraser." 

"Six of one... I merely meant that--" 

"I got your meaning, there, and they're toiletries. Toiletries." 

"Ah yes. Of course. You _do_ seem to use a rather extensive toilette, considering...." 

"Considering _what_ \--" 

"Ah. Well." 

"Well? Out with it. Considering what." 

He clears his throat. "Just that your appearance suggests a rather more, ah, casual or relaxed attitude toward personal hygiene, such that, well..." 

"I think I'm insulted." 

"No insult was intended, Ray. As you and I both know, appearances can be deceiving." 

I look down at him and he's grinning like a loon, and jacking me but good, and I get it. I fucking get it. I'm with him. I'm _there_. This is it. This is us. In the same room, on the same page, capital F freaks, the both of us. 

I grin back. "Fraser, are you yanking my chain here?" 

"Well...." He looks at where his hand is and actually turns a little pink. Just a little. That's cool--that's reasonable. That's Fraser with his hand on my cock. 

"Get up here." 

He gets to his feet, and looks at me, real intense, Fraser-intense, up and down, and then up again, at the hair, and he touches it again, his big hand flattening it down, tangling up in it until it hurts. 

Finally finally _finally_. 

And then I'm backed up against the door quicker than you can say, "Fuck me," and his mouth's on me, hard enough to knock my head into the wall and my glasses into my face, which sucks, but kinda feels good, too. Fraser's hands and mouth are on me, attacking on all fronts, disorganized, yet effective. 

He's pushing my naked ass into a very, very cold wall, and I'm practicing my French on him. Je bande pour Fraser. 

I'm grinding my bande into Fraser's hip, and I moan when he lowers us to the foyer floor and my back hits the hardwood, which is--wait for it--hard, wood, and icefuckingcold. There's a draft coming in under the door, which does not help. Fraser's got his own peculiar Mountie code which does not include central heating, doorways, bedframes, coffee, beer, parachutes, loaded guns, hair dye, or most of the other things which separate us from the sled dogs. Of course, if I was thinking clearly, instead of busy humping my brains out, I could've steered us to my room before Fraser threw me to the floor, and we'd be stretched out on an actual single bed. Unless he got rid of that when he got rid of me, which I'm not even going to consider right now. 

This just feels too good-- just to touch somebody again, to be up so close I can see the little lines around his eyes that weren't there when I first signed on as Vecchio. Or maybe they were. I don't usually get this close with my glasses on. 

Just for the hell of it, I lick his face--little frown lines, laugh lines, worry lines--and he flinches and turns his head. So damned pretty, so damned pretty. 

I pull myself up, straddle the Mountie, and he looks up at me, and it's almost too weird. I spent too many months looking at him--in the GTO, across my desk at the precinct, over a campfire, his kitchen table--and he has never looked at me like that without looking away afterwards, making me pretend I hadn't seen it, prevaricating like hell. But this time he keeps looking that way, looking my way, looking and looking and looking. 

I don't know why. No, I do know why. One Ray, Two Rays, Red's Ray, Blue Ray. 

When do you stop looking if you don't know what you're looking _for_? 

I just don't know. I let him look. Maybe he can see it on my face, how I want to fuck him-- through the floor, pin him down, take him deep into my lungs, make him feel what I feel right now, no excuses, no surfaces, space--nothing between us, not even air. 

Shit. Clingy much, Kowalski? 

* * *

I manage to get his henley pushed up under his arms, but then it's stuck. He lifts his shoulders up off the floor while I'm still sitting on his hips, his thighs tensing up under me, his hips coming up a little. 

His chest's as pretty as the rest of him, still winter white, flat little nipples. I put my hands on his chest, hold him down on the cold floor--not like he's fighting me. 

He's quiet, too quiet, the whole time I'm getting his clothes off, which is making me antsy. Stella used to talk, give directions, make these little sounds even before I was doing anything interesting. 

I want to make Fraser get loud. 

I want him to lose it--to say fuck it and just let go of himself and hang onto me. 

This is your brain on sex. This is your body on Benton Fraser. 

* * *

This is my body _in_ Benton Fraser. 

God help me, but I'm gonna do this. 

I've got his jeans off, down to his knees, and he kicks them off the rest of the way and--like he's reading my mind now--he rolls over onto his front, and I'm looking at God's gift to starched boxers. 

If they gave Mounties medals for asses, Fraser'd be a Lieutenant by now. No, scratch that. Prime Minister of Canada. 

I'm afraid to touch it, honestly. He's lying there so still, waiting, I guess, for me to... do whatever I'm gonna do. He looks naked. He is naked, yeah, but he looks... naked. I saw him roll around in the snow, but that was different. That was just an undressed and very strange Canadian performing weird native customs. This is just... a naked guy waiting to get fucked up the ass. I don't know what I'm saying. This is still a very strange Canadian. I guess that is the point. This is Benton Fraser, R-C-M-P, F-R-E-A-K. 

"Lift up," I say, finally, and wonder of wonders, he does. Lifts up those hips, and I slide the boxers down, and put my hands down on him, and confirm for myself that yes, this is Fraser's ass I'm holding onto. I get a little curious and reach around in front, and yeah, there it is. He jumps a little when I touch his cock, but then he presses down into my hand. He's got his head buried in his arms, so I can't see his face, but I'd bet even money he's blushing. I can see his neck's a little pink, which is sort of embarrassing. 

I stop staring at his neck, go down to the space between his shoulderblades, and the smooth skin of his back, and the scar on it that's faded, but still hurts to look at. I want to kiss it better, but I don't. Not my place to do that. 

I lean in closer. I don't know what I'm going to do until I do it, and then I'm doing it, kissing his ass, right at the high point, and I mean that both literally and, er, figuratively. Then down the curve of it, and he's sort of tensing up, like he didn't expect that at all. Good. Neither did I. 

He's squirming a little, but not saying, "Stop," so I don't. His skin's soft, warm, nice. And it's hot, kissing him, licking a little. 

"Ray." 

"Hmm?" 

"I--" 

I stop. Wait for it. 

"Ray, I--" 

"Frase?" 

"What you were doing... that is..." He's talking so soft, I've got to move up to hear him. He hears me shift around, and then he's lifting his head up and looking over his shoulder at me, and he licks his lip. "Ray, please...." 

I nod, like I get it, but I don't. Please. Please stop? Please do continue? 

What--do I flip a coin here? 

I scoot back down and put my hand back where it was, this time sort of opening him up a little, and he makes this little sound in the back of his throat. Okay. I got that. Please. I can feel his cock twitching in my hand and I squeeze, adjust my grip a little. 

I go a little farther, and he starts to shift, opening himself up, spreading his legs, getting some room between my hand and the floor, and his muscles flex. And he's still making that low, soft little sound, or maybe that's just him breathing hard. Or maybe that's me. 

I try the little flutter thing with my tongue that always got Stella going, and oh yeah, his whole body tenses up, and then he's pushing up against me. 

My glasses are steaming up, and yes, I should've taken them off already, but I forgot they were on, which is like a miracle of Fraser proportions. I don't have a hand free, or I'd take them off. So they stay on, and I stay on Fraser. 

"Ray--" he breathes, and I keep at it, work my way inside him, and he's breathing hard, now, and his cock's damp and sticky in my hand, and I pump him and he pushes into my hand again, and it's awkward, my wrist hurts and my jaw hurts, but I keep pumping and licking him, fucking him with my mouth and my hand. 

And he starts taking these deep gulping breaths, and I can feel him start to shake, shiver under me, and I shiver too, because the floor's still cold, and my knees hurt, and there's a draft coming in under the door, and I'm starting to sweat, just doing this to him. 

"Ray--" 

"Hmm." 

"Ray, Ray, Ray, my jacket pocket--" 

It takes me a minute to figure out he's not just saying my name. 

"Hnh?" 

"Vaseline. In my jacket pocket." 

I sit up and reach over, and find his jacket pocket, which does indeed have a tube of Vaseline lip stuff in it. 

"You sure about this?" 

But I don't wait for him to answer. I put some on my fingertips and then I'm touching him again. 

"Like this?" 

"Hmm. Ray..." 

I keep at it, pushing the tip of my finger in, then farther. It's easier than I thought it'd be, but then, he's pretty relaxed at this point. 

"Like this?" I ask again, because I want to hear him say yes, he likes it like this. 

"Ah... Ray, Ray, Ray, I-- want--" 

"Whattaya want, Frase?" 

"You." 

"Hunh. Couldn't've said that two months ago." 

"Ray--" He lifts his head up and swings around to glare at me, but the effect's sort of ruined, since I've got my finger up his ass. 

"Okay. Sorry. Sorry. Hang on." 

He sort of grunts and puts his head back down on his arms. 

I've only got two hands, so I've got to make some decisions here. I know, sex is what you do when you're not paying attention, but I have not done this particular sex act before. 

And I'm doing it to--with-- _in_ \--Benton Fraser. 

Yeah, no pressure there. 

Fraser's perfect ass does not appear to be going anywhere, so I let go of his dick and take my time lubing mine. Do not get me wrong--French kissing Fraser's ass is on my top ten list of things I want to do again, as soon as is humanly possible. But it did not provide me with much in the way of direct stimulation. And besides, I wasn't this nervous on my wedding night, which maybe I should've been, because I think, in retrospect, that I sucked, and not in that good way Stella came to like. 

Enough with the excuses. The Vaseline's slippery, and I put too much on and have to wipe off my hand on Fraser's henley, which I figure is poetic justice. 

And then I'm ready, I'm up, and I put my hands on Fraser's hips, urging him to assume the position. 

He gets up on his hands and knees without saying anything, but I can hear him breathing, kind of unsteady, like he's been running. 

I take my hand off my dick with one last stroke for good luck. And then I get behind him, and lean over him, and it's.... In. 

Oh. 

That's... tight. 

"Fraser. Uhn." 

"Ray." He sort of whispers my name, and that's it. I gotta move. 

I push, and he inhales, and the hand I've got wrapped around his erection tightens, and he thrusts into it, and then I'm in all the way--and I've just done this thing--this massive, irrevocable jumping out of a moving airplane without a parachute into the Arctic North thing. 

I'm moving to Canada. 

* * *

"Ray." 

"Yeah?" 

I'm lying on my back on the foyer floor, and the draft's still coming in under the door, but that's okay, because I just came so hard I can't feel my legs. 

"I really--" He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds rough. "I really wasn't expecting...." He doesn't sound like himself. He sounds... Naked, still. A little rough and raw around the edges. 

I turn my head and there he is. At some point, he turned onto his side, so he's facing me, but his eyes are closed, so I can stare all I want. 

"Yeah," I agree, too tired to say what I mean. He looks as rough as he sounds. It's a good look on him. 

But Fraser's getting his second wind, which figures. "Ray, I--I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome in my home. I--wanted you to stay on." 

"Bullshit. That's just bullshit." 

And Fraser actually opens his eyes and looks shocked, which makes me laugh, since he just took it up the ass, and he's looking shocked _now_. 

"I think I'd know if I wanted you to leave." 

I glare at him. "Do I look like polite society to you?" 

I look down at myself and can tell Fraser's doing the same, because when I look up again, he's clearly trying not to smile. 

"Point taken." 

"Yeah, it sure as hell was." 

That's it, I win. The Mountie smiles. 

"You were sick of me, admit it." 

"I was..." 

"Sick. Of. Me." 

He looks like he's trying to find a better way to put it, and given that this is Fraser, I'm pretty sure he'll manage to make it sound like a compliment. 

"I have spent a good deal of my life living alone or in the company of men--" 

Okay, so I snicker at that. He looks put upon, but continues. 

"... in a professional capacity and with some level of anonymity. I was simply not prepared for the--" 

"Monotony of my company?" 

He sighs and shakes his head. "May I finish a sentence tonight or would you like to continue your game of MadLibs without me?" 

Oooh. Snippy Fraser. "You got MadLibs in Canada?" 

"Canada is a large and diverse country--" 

"With lots of airports," I say, just to bug him. What can I say, sex with Fraser does not cure that particular urge. 

"It's not polite to interrupt." 

And before I can sass him again, I've got his big hand over my mouth. 

"Now, as I was saying, I was simply unprepared for the turn our relationship appeared to be taking. I am not proud of my response to that self-knowledge, but--" 

"Fraser," I say, but it comes out sounding like, "Frrr." 

"Yes, Ray?" 

I lick his palm, and he makes a face and lets go. 

"Are you about to start in on an Inuit story? Because, you know, if you want me to take a hike, you just gotta say so." 

He looks at me, and his eyes and his voice get serious. "I don't want you to leave, Ray." 

And he leans over and puts his hands on the sides of my face, sort of holding me in place, and he kisses me, long and deep and so sweet it hurts. 

It feels like a good-bye kiss. 

* * *

"You are leaving, Ray." 

Trust Fraser to get post-coitally practical on me. I open my eyes, and he's watching me with that big-eyed Mountie look, which is kind of ruined because his big eyes have these dark circles under them. "Yeah." 

"When?" 

"I start work end of November." 

He nods, a little "Understood" nod. 

"It's not permanent. I mean, it's permanent, but..." 

He leans over and kisses me again. If the last one was a good-bye kiss, this is have a nice trip, hasta la vista, bon voyage, and don't break a leg, with a little mazel tov mixed in there. 

"There's an airport in Edmonton," I say, because I hate this kind of thing. I suck at sucking it up. 

He kisses me again, which kinda makes it worse. 

"You'll write, phone" he says. "The RCMP allows me 25 days of vacation." 

I nod. 

"Good. Then that's settled." 

I nod again, because I'm not sure I can talk yet. We've got the rest of August, all of September, plus weekends, holidays. Retirement. 

Tomorrow morning. All weekend. 

"Bed, Ray." 

He gets up and stands there, with his hand out. I take it and he pulls me up, which I need, because I think my back just gave out. 

Before I go down the hall, I stop to look out the window. The bike's still there, which is good, because you don't want to steal something from a Mountie like Fraser. He'll chase you to the ends of the earth and give you a good talking to. 

I shouldn't have bought it. 

"No?" 

I didn't know I said that out loud, which tells you how zonked I am. "You got any idea how much moving here's going to cost me?" 

We get to my old room, and the bed's still there. In fact, it looks like Fraser didn't even change the sheets. He pauses at the door. "Do you?" 

"No. Ask me another stupid question." Shit, what the hell does he think I've been spending the last two months doing? Measuring my dick? 

"I'm sure you could take it back..." 

He's hovering in my doorway, and finally, I push past him, annoyed and tired and not at all surprised, really. 

I sit on the bed, which feels way too good. "I want it. I just can't afford it. There is a difference." 

"I see," said the blind man. 

"No. You don't, but that's okay." 

He's still standing there, and I'm stubborn, so I'm not going to ask him in. I'm sticky and I've got Vaseline all over my hands that I'm too tired to wash off, so I get into bed. 

I roll over, face the wall, and I feel Fraser get in next to me. 

The bed's small, so he's crushed up against me, and it takes a minute for us to adjust. 

He didn't change the sheets since I left, which is weirdly un-Fraser. I can still smell my hair stuff on the pillow, and he catches me sniffing and says, "Orange, Ray?" with a smile in his voice. 

I can smell my hair stuff, and something else. I sniff again. His hair stuff, and the soap he uses, on my pillow. 

He reaches up and kind of fumbles at my head, touching my hair, like maybe his eyes aren't any better than mine in the dark. Speaking of which, I remember and take my glasses off, finally, and reach over him to put them on the bedside table. 

He crushes closer to me, and I let him, because I don't really take up that much space, even with a few extra pounds on me. Speaking of which--my stomach grumbles. 

"Frase--?" 

"Hmm?" 

"You happen to have any of that stew left?" 

"Yeah," he says, but I don't know if he hears me. He's gone kind of limp in my arms, and so I give up on the stew. The clock says it's almost morning anyway. Down the hall, I can hear Dief wandering around. 

\-------------- 

I'm awake, and I don't even remember saying, "Goodnight, Mountie." I guess we just both dropped off. Fraser's still asleep--at least I think he is--curled up next to me, but not really touching me anywhere, which is a miracle. He's at the edge of the bed, trying to get away from me. I guess he's still used to sleeping alone. I'm not, but that's okay. 

Dief's lying on my feet, which explains why they've gone numb. And the sun's up--no surprise there. It's almost nine o'clock, and Fraser's still out for the count. 'Course, we got in pretty late, and then stayed up pretty late after that. I guess if he doesn't have to work, he's not "up with the sun." Maybe he only does it if he thinks he's gotta show somebody up, and I'm already impressed, so why bother. 

Outside the front window, I know if I looked I could see that bike sitting there. 

Fraser's practical, so he just doesn't get it. 

My dad used to always say, "With age, comes understanding." He never said of what. As far as I can tell, with age comes a bad back, bad eyes, and, just between me and the wall, grey hair. But it also brings perspective, I guess, so maybe that's what he meant. 

It's an instinct thing. 

It's a Kowalski thing. 

Lucky for Fraser, I think maybe I finally know what that means. 

See, the trick to being a guest--in somebody's life, house, bed, whatever--is knowing how not to overstay your welcome. 

But this is Fraser, and I am not a guest. 

_I_ am a Canadian. And this is home. 

—FIN—

**Author's Note:**

> "To the brilliantly wonderful Anne, without whom life would not be worth living." But seriously, folks, Anne asked all the right questions, and I hope my answers live up to them. Thanks also to Resonant for helping me to take a little off the top and sides, and for demanding a timeline that made sense. Thanks to Livia for helping me see what I needed to see. And finally, thanks to CKR for the hair. Any lack of greatness is entirely my own.
> 
> © JUNE 2001


End file.
